“Chastain,” Lord Wentwhistle chided, “mind your tongue.”
“I’ll mind my tongue. Dorning, deal the cards, and, ladies, may the best men win.”
Nobody smiled at that remark. Mrs. Chastain was looking bilious, and at her side, Portly for once appeared grim.
The ladies conferred for a moment before agreeing to meet Ash’s proposed bet. The amount in play was far beyond what ought to change hands at a typical house party. If Ash could manage to lose, the marchioness would recoup her step-son’s losses many times over, and Mrs. Tremont would be well fixed for some time to come.
Ash shuffled deftly and was passing the cards to the various players when he caught a shift in Della’s expression. He cocked his head, slightly enough for her to perceive the gesture, and she tugged at the cuff of her sleeve.
What was she trying to tell him?
Sycamore did the same thing, casually tugging at his right sleeve with his left hand while staring intently at Chastain.
Between the card passed to Mrs. Tremont and the card passed to Lady Tavistock, Ash’s brain connected the hints from Della and Sycamore with the peculiar angle of the lace at Chastain’s wrist. Chastain had a bloody card up his sleeve. The game was vingt-et-un, and he had doubtless stashed an ace out of sight. He’d hidden his perfidy behind a steady procession of wineglasses, one of which—recently refilled—sat before him.
Chastain intended to cheat his way to victory. Why in the hell hadn’t Ash foreseen that? Chastain thrived on cheating, bullying, and lying, and he wasn’t about to give up those habits at this hour.
“Don’t you intend to deal any cards for yourself, Mr. Dorning?” Lady Tavistock asked.
“Sorry,” Ash said, smiling blandly as he considered the available options. Ruining the ladies was not among them, and yet, he had only one possible option, one ally who could see Chastain’s cheating thwarted.
“I’m a bit fatigued,” he said, “also parched. Could somebody pour me a glass of brandy? Better still, Della, my darling, might you toss me down my flask?”
That a wife would carry her husband’s flask in her reticule ought not to surprise anybody married for more than a fortnight. That Della had grasped Ash’s plan was a secret known only to him and conveyed by the way she cocked her head for a moment, the slightest tilt to one side.
She rummaged in her reticule, simpered at Ash, and let fly with her flask.
Time became a progression of detached moments while Della watched her flask arc through the air. No sound penetrated her mind as silver flashed in candlelight, and the projectile connected squarely with William Chastain’s full glass of claret.
Wine went everywhere, including all over Chastain’s hand, cuff, sleeve, and lap. Ash was on his feet in the next instant, offering Chastain a clean handkerchief and gathering up the wine-spattered cards.
“My apologies, Chastain,” Ash said, while the ladies looked on, nonplussed. “My profound apologies. Shall we take a short break before finishing our play? You will want to tidy up, I’m sure.”
Through this litany, Chastain spluttered, pulled at his sleeves and falls, and glowered up at Della. He muttered something about clumsy damned females and accursed wine stains, while Della breathed freely for the first time in more than an hour.
“Well met,” Sycamore whispered. “Damned well met.” He squeezed Della’s hand, and his expression as he smiled at her had something of amazement in it.
Francis Portly was looking at her similarly, while Mrs. Chastain looked merely calm. “Mr. Portly,” she said, “would you be so good as to fetch me a glass of punch? Lady Della, let us take a turn in the corridor while matters are sorted out at the table. The air here is quite close, don’t you agree?”
“I’d rather not miss the final play, madam.”
“William will change his shirt before play resumes. Of this, I am certain.”
She’d sent Portly off on a pretext, and the mezzanine had grown warm. Della passed Sycamore her reticule and moved into the corridor with Clarice.
“Mr. Dorning will ruin William,” Clarice said. “You must convey to your husband my profound thanks. A lesser man would have ruined me.”
Della did not entirely trust Clarice Chastain, though the woman seemed in complete earnest. “Why exactly shall I thank my husband on your behalf?”
“Because if Mr. Dorning’s objective was revenge, he would do as William did to you—dragged your name through the mud, subjected you to ridicule, made you an object of scorn. A lady’s good name is her dearest and most fragile possession, and William attempted to destroy yours.”
The image of the shattered wineglass came to mind. “William tried to effect that plan. Mr. Dorning thwarted him. I am a happily married woman.” And wasn’t that the best revenge of all?
“I am not a happily married woman,” Mrs. Chastain said, glancing about the deserted corridor. “But I am content. I conceived Francis Portly’s child about two months ago, and it became necessary to acquire a spouse with means and standing sufficient to appease my parents. Mama had been in discussion with William’s mother for some time, and so.” She lifted one shoulder, not quite a shrug. “My darling Francis is, unfortunately, without prospects.”
All Della could think was, The poor child, to be born into such circumstances.
“You will say I was foolish,” Clarice went on, “and you would be correct, though William will not suspect the truth. I made sure of that.”
“I am sorry.” For Clarice, for Portly, for the child, and even a little bit for William, pathetic oaf that he was.
Clarice waved a hand in a gesture of dismissal. “For the passing inconvenience William causes me, I have a bit of éclat among the lesser hostesses as the wife of a baronet’s heir. I have security, I am free of my parents’ meddling, and I will have Francis’s frequent company. One must be practical, non? I did honestly fear you and Mr. Dorning would make trouble for me, but you instead do me a great service.”
“By bankrupting your spouse?”
“By removing William from polite society. William is reckless and spoiled, and outgrowing those faults will take time. Perhaps you have given him that time.”
“And perhaps nothing will inspire him to grow up.”
Clarice used a nearby pier glass to inspect her appearance, which was flawless. “I will dutifully retire to the country with my husband. His loyal best friend will visit us frequently. For me, this is a solution to many problems.”
That Clarice would explain this to Della was a curious relief. “I wish you all the best,” Della said, “though I suspect William will be a difficult husband.”
Clarice smiled. “No, he will not. He wants a firm hand, craves it, I suspect, and I can be very firm. I will reward his good behavior and punish him when he disappoints me. He has done nothing but disappoint me so far.”
Della shuddered at the images those words brought to mind. “Might we return to the library? I really do want to see the final hand played.”
“Of course. That bit with the flask was brilliant, my lady. Mr. Dorning could easily have exposed William as a cheat, but instead only William’s foolishness will be exposed. I do not expect such gallantry from the English.”